Constable Through the Meadow (2 page)

The rear of each little van was completely bare and empty; the ridged metal floor had no covering and there were no shelves or compartments for storage or for conveying the paraphernalia of constabulary duty. In truth, that empty rear compartment was of very limited value; no one (except a child) could sit there although I did note the huge battery strapped down near one of the rear-wheel arches.

This had replaced the original car battery because of the additional power required for the radio which would be
functioning
virtually round the clock, and for activating the flashing blue light should it ever be required. After a short course of
instruction about operating the mini-van, the radio and the blue light, and a lecture about the need to regularly clean the vehicle inside and out, to rigidly abide by servicing dates and oil changes, to enter details in the log immediately upon
completion
of each journey and to report any fault however minor, I was allowed to leave.

It was at this point that another problem faced me and countless other constables. It was a simple problem – police officers are among the largest of people and mini-vans are among the smallest of motor vehicles. Getting some officers into those driving-seats was rather like a size 6 foot being squeezed into a size 4½
shoe. Not being as tall or as broad as some, I found that I could get into the driving-seat and, with the seat pushed back to its maximum, I could operate the foot pedals and hand controls. But I could not wear a cap while driving. Even though we wore peaked caps and not helmets, I now knew the purpose of that empty rear part – it was to carry the caps of constables at the wheel, even if they were liable to rattle around in that empty bare area. Once inside, however, I started the engine, listened to the crackle of the tiny exhaust and switched on the official radio. Having booked on the air, I found first gear, noted the fuel tank was full and set a course for Aidensfield.

On the journey home, I gained impressions of my cap
bouncing
around in the rear, of me bouncing around in the front and the little van
et
al
bouncing across the moors. I was later to learn that passengers in mini cars are nervously aware of this
bouncing
motion because their rumps hover dangerously near to the road surface while the suspension of the vehicle gives the overall feeling of riding in a high-speed motorised trampoline. But we made it.

During that half-hour trip, I learned to drive with my head slightly bowed to avoid crowning myself on the roof, and managed to manipulate the miniature pedals by judicious use of my police boots. Sometimes, however, the expanse which formed the soles of my boots made me strike two pedals at the same time, but protests from the mini rapidly corrected that fault. The simultaneous operation of a brake, clutch or
accelerator
is enough to confuse the cleverest of transmission systems
and the mini had the sense to protest loudly and actively at this abuse.

Once at home, the children were delighted. Tiny as they were, they thought it was my personal van and so I let them sit in the back; for them, the experience was wonderful and they squeaked with delight as they tumbled and rolled about the bare metal floor. Lots of little faces peered out of the rear windows like miniature prisoners in a miniature Black Maria, and more squeals of delight occurred when one of them tweaked the switch of the rotating blue light which flashed and reflected brightly in the windows of the house.

They spent a few minutes playing in the van, sometimes listening to the burble of voices that muttered eternally from the official radio and sometimes pretending to drive it to an
accompaniment
of suitable brum-brums and pip-pips. It was a moment of fun in a vehicle that had a very official function to perform. After a coffee, I rang Sergeant Blaketon to announce my return to Aidensfield with the van and he ordered me to drive to Ashfordly Police Station so that he could formally inspect this newest of acquisitions. Before leaving, I made sure the children hadn’t left anything in the van, because Oscar Blaketon was not the sort of person to appreciate a child’s desperate need to play ‘going to Nanna’s’ in Daddy’s new police car.

I parked it outside the square brick-built police station at Ashfordly and entered; Sergeant Blaketon was writing
something
at the front desk and actually smiled at my arrival.

‘All correct, Rhea?’ he asked; this was his way of saying ‘Hello.’

‘All correct, Sergeant,’ I chanted the ritual response.

‘The section’s new vehicle functioning all right, is it?’ he continued. ‘No breakdowns, mechanical defects,
malfunctioning
of equipment, unnecessary rattles, squeaks or groans? Damage or wear and tear? Punctures or oil leaks?’

‘No, it seems to go very well,’ I said. ‘Good acceleration, the braking seems OK and it corners very well. I didn’t hit anything on the way here either,’ I added.

‘You’re to share it with other beat men, Rhea,’ his face never
cracked at my veiled sarcasm, for his smile was now stored away for use at a future time. ‘That van does not belong to Aidensfield beat, you appreciate?’

‘Yes, I know that, Sergeant.’ I was now behind the counter and had removed my cap. I had some report writing to
complete
, and this seemed the ideal opportunity to do it on the office typewriter. ‘You wanted to see the van?’

‘In a moment, Rhea. I’m busy compiling a set of instructions right now,’ he said, ‘You’ll have to familiarise yourself with them, so you might as well type them out for me. Copies to all users of the van, copy for the office notice-board, copy for Divisional HQ, and a copy to be stuck inside the van’s
log-book
. All to note and sign as having read and digested the said instructions.’

I knew Blaketon’s obsession for detail and his practice of committing his orders to writing; I could visualise the contents of his order. I was not disappointed when he presented his neat handwritten work for me to type. After identifying the vehicle by its registration number and the call sign of the radio set, he listed a host of ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts.’

These included the following:

‘Members will, repeat will, maintain the vehicle in a
roadworthy
condition. Under no circumstances will road traffic laws and regulations be infringed. Members will therefore inspect the van before and after each journey.

‘Members will, repeat will, inspect for defects such as faulty lights, worn tyres, defective windscreen wipers, brakes and steering, and any other fault, mechanical or otherwise, which might infringe either the Road Traffic Acts or the Construction and Use Regulations. The van will not, repeat not, be driven upon a road if it is in such a condition that statutory provisions are infringed.

‘It will be the responsibility of drivers to thoroughly check the roadworthiness of the van; responsibility will be deemed to devolve upon the person driving it when such a fault develops. It will therefore be in the interests of all members to check the vehicle meticulously before taking it on the road. Any defects or damage then discovered will, repeat will, be reported
immediately
.

‘Members will, repeat will, ensure that the vehicle is filled with petrol at the conclusion of every tour of duty, and that the oil, water and tyre pressures are checked, and if necessary, replenished. Details will, repeat will, be entered in the log book, and in the pocket books of the officers concerned. It is imperative that this instruction is obeyed. Failure will be
considered
a disciplinary offence.

‘Members will, repeat will, ensure that the vehicle is driven courteously at all times and that drivers set an example to the public by the high standard of their driving.

‘Members will not, repeat not, consume food or drink within the vehicle.

‘Members will, repeat will, at all times be correctly dressed when using the vehicle. Caps will, repeat will, be worn, tunics will be fastened correctly and ties will be knotted. When meeting a senior officer of or above the rank of Inspector, members will emerge from the vehicle before saluting.

‘Members will not, repeat not, carry unauthorised members of the public, friends or family in the vehicle, unless their presence is necessary in the performance of their duty, eg upon arrest or other emergency.

‘Members will, repeat will, ensure that ashtrays are emptied regularly and that the vehicle is thoroughly cleansed inside and out at the conclusion of every tour of duty, unless the exigencies of the service prevent otherwise. In these circumstances, a report will be submitted to explain those exigencies’.

Having written out his instructions, he handed them to me and as I began transferring them to paper, he went outside to examine the van. He spent some minutes and I saw him
stooping
to examine the tyres and to seek evidence of any damage, however minor, that might be present. He looked inside, checked the radio for its effectiveness and the ashtray for residue, looking into the log-book and then lifted the bonnet. He dipped the oil and spent some minutes tugging at plug leads and checking internal engine matters. Next he tested all the lights, the flashing indicators, the windscreen wipers and washers and even the interior light.

Then he took it for a brief drive around the block, and, satisfied that it was absolutely correct, took out his own
pocket-book 
and made a note to that effect. Woe betide an officer who might suggest the vehicle had been delivered with a fault. Blaketon’s record showed that it was in perfect order upon arrival, therefore any faults which developed would be the responsibility of the driver at the time. I knew that we must all treat the van as if it were our very own and I also knew that some officers, upon damaging an official vehicle (even accidentally) would not mention the matter, hoping that a subsequent driver would be careless enough not to check the vehicle before taking it out. Thus blame or responsibility could be avoided and the unwary innocent saddled with another’s sins. We all knew the value of being ultra-cautious in such matters.

I completed Blaketon’s piece of typing and made no comment as I passed it to him for signature. By the time I had finished my own work, copies had been signed and one was prominent upon the office notice-board.

‘So the van’s yours for today and tomorrow, Rhea?’ he said.

‘Yes, Sergeant.’ After studying the duty sheets, I understood the arrangements.

‘So when you knock off duty tomorrow night, at ten, you will deliver it to Falconbridge beat?’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘Make sure it’s filled with petrol,’ he said. I nodded.

‘Shall I book off duty late then, or will PC Clough come on duty early?’ I asked.

‘I don’t follow your logic, Rhea.’

Knowing his attitude for precise timing, I said, ‘If I arrive at PC Clough’s house at 10pm to hand over the van, and he then drives me home, I will not be able to book off duty until 10.20pm or thereabouts. I will be in uniform, in an official vehicle, with an officer who is on duty. So I will be on duty, won’t I? And this will happen every time the van is handed over. One of us will have to work extra time either before our shift or after it. Shall we all claim overtime for the hand-overs, Sergeant?’

He looked at me steadily, his dark eyes never showing any emotion ……

‘Rhea,’ he said, ‘a constable is never off duty.’

‘So if the van is involved in a traffic accident as I am being taken home, and I am injured, will I be able to claim that I was
injured on duty? It makes a huge difference if there is a question of compensation or an entitlement to an ill-health pension, Sergeant.’

He knew I was right, and I guessed this aspect had never occurred to him, or to those who had dreamed up the system of change-overs in this way. He was thinking rapidly, mentally assessing the enormous legal complications which could accrue from any incident which might happen within those disputed few minutes.

‘I will ask the Superintendent to authorise half an hour’s extra duty for at least one of the officers involved in every
change-over
,’ he said. ‘I will ask for it to be included on your overtime card and to be taken off when duty commitments allow.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ he knew, and I knew, that this matter had to be determined right from the outset; minor though it appeared on the surface, there could be immense ramifications which might affect the officer or his family if something went wrong during those contentious few minutes. For an officer to be killed or injured when on duty differed hugely from one killed or injured when off duty.

The next problem, unforeseen by Sergeant Blaketon, occurred when the Superintendent visited me at the beginning of one of my tours of duty. The little van was parked on the hard-standing in front of my police house and the
Superintendent
parked behind it, awaiting my emergence from the house. He did not come to the office which adjoined, but preferred to wait outside to see if I was late on duty; that’s how some senior officers operated. But I had seen the arrival of his black car and went outside prompt on the stroke of two o’clock. I was to perform an afternoon shift from 2pm until 10pm, and had custody of the van because PC Clough of Falconbridge was enjoying a rest-day.

As I emerged, therefore, I slung up a smart salute and smiled as the Superintendent clambered from his car.

‘Now, Rhea,’ he said. ‘Anything to report?’

I updated him on events which had occurred on my beat over the past few days and he nodded approval at the way I had dealt with them. Then he turned his attention to the mini-van and asked my opinion upon its suitability.

I enthused over it, but refrained from mentioning the
hand-over
complications. Sergeant Blaketon would have seen to that – it was a matter of internal politics.

Then the Superintendent began, ‘I came past your house last night, Rhea, around midnight.’

‘I finished at ten last night, sir. Same hours as today.’

‘Yes, I know. And when I drove past, I saw the van standing there, on the hard-standing.’